Date: Fri, 16 Jun 2006 03:12:29 +0000
From: S. K.
Subject: 'Aaron and Amir, Part 9' (S.K.) (B spank mast hs )
As we were getting dressed, the cordless phone on Amir's bedside table
began to ring. He picked up.
"Hey, Dad. I'm OK... Oh, that's good.... Yeah... yeah, sure... I'll do
that. OK, I'll tell him... Sure, sure... See you soon...OK... Love you
too. Bye."
He saw me looking at him. I'd heard the "Love you too" and thought it was
cute as all hell.
"My dad's coming home early. He was telling me to get some money from
Rahman and order a pizza. You want to stay?"
He looked poised to insist.
"Will everyone be alright with that? I mean, Rahman--"
"He'll probably be more pissed at me for asking him for money. Speaking
of."
Amir, apparently deciding to bite the bullet, picked up the receiver again,
punched some numbers, and waited.
"Rahman. Yeah. It's Amir. I'm sorry to bother you. Dad just called. He's
coming home early and wants us to get a pizza or something for
dinner. Uh-huh." Amir listened. "Yeah. He said to ask you... Yes, I
know. OK, OK. Bye."
"Rahman's going to be here in a few minutes. Just ignore him if he acts
like an ass, OK? At least try."
"Is he pissed?"
"Yeah, but what else is new? The day Rahman wakes up in a *good* mood,
that's the day I'll start worrying. What do you like on your pizza?"
"I don't know. Get whatever you usually get."
He decided to wait for Rahman and his other brothers before ordering, so we
lounged on his bed, not really touching or anything, since if we started we
wouldn't be able to stop. Soon Qasim and Salim banged in the front door.
Sulky, tired Qasim in some of Amir's old clothes, and Salim all flushed and
sweaty from his last- period gym class. Salim smiled dreamily and shook my
hand without much interest, then went to the living room phone and began
flipping through some of the pizza menus Amir's dad kept there, the small
smile still on his face as he contemplated a hot dinner after all that
exercise. He had the loveliest dimples. Not as lovely as the ones in the
sides of his brother's blushing ass--but you get it.
Meanwhile, Qasim knit his handsome brow as recognition came over him.
"Hey. Aren't you that guy?" he demanded, sounding a little
ridiculous. Turning to Amir, a finger jabbed accusingly in my direction:
"This is that guy, right?" Then back to me: "What did you say your name
was?"
"Aaron Eisen. What guy?"
"Yeah, it's you. You're always giving Amir shit. What are you doing here?"
That stung, and it showed. I knew I'd been an asshole. Something changed in
Qasim's face; he'd expected contention, indignation.
"Aaron's my friend now," Amir said quickly, "It's all worked out."
"All worked out? How? What happened?"
I looked at Amir. He looked at me. It was an excellent question--excellent
for reasons Qasim would likely never know. What *had* happened to us? And
what *would* happen?
"We had a fight," I said.
Qasim threw up his hands. "Yeah, I *know*. Amir got his ass beat for it,
Rahman told me. So how come you're here now? And you were here the other
day too, right? That's your car out there?"
"It is."
"Well? How come?" Qasim's bony attractive hands were suddenly balled into
tight fists at his sides.
I'd never heard Qasim string so many words together. Docile, if a little
sad--that was how I'd always thought of him, when I spared him more than the
mental energy required for a surreptitious glance at his cute ass in
outgrown khaki.
"We're studying together," Amir said, remembering our lie. "Neither of us
wants to get behind in anything. We talked over our differences."
Qasim snorted. Even I felt like laughing.
Amir put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Come on, Qas, don't be like
Rahman. We had problems and now we don't anymore... So just let it go, will
you? If I say he's allowed, he's allowed."
Qasim glanced at me, eyes slitted, then sighed. "Fine. What are we getting
on the pizza?"
"I want the three-cheese blend," said Salim, as if that settled it. He
tossed the Salvatoro's menu down by the phone, and bounded upstairs to get
changed, leaving his books and other stuff scattered on the sofa.
Amir picked the menu up. "There's a coupon. You get soda and twenty wings
with it. Rahman'll like that. He's paying."
Qasim rolled his eyes, balancing on one foot as he undid his shoe against
the wall. I could see the split of his excellent buns when he stood that
way. "So he's going to be in an asshole mood, isn't he?
"Just til Dad gets home." Amir shrugged. "He'll pay him back. Don't put
your foot on the wall like that. It leaves a track and then I get bitched
out."
Another eye-roll from Qasim. He took his foot off the wall.
"And don't look at me like that," Amir said.
"What are you gonna do about it, spank my ass?" Qasim looked over his
shoulder with a little half- moon of a smile. He was a *very* pretty boy.
Amir smiled back, and I wondered if the Khalili boys were consciously
trying to titillate me. Amir probably was, but Qasim had brought up the
subject.
"I can and you know it."
The door crashed open and Rahman entered, hauling his lap-top case,
backpack, and a duffle-bag. He was as flushed as Salim, whose mess on the
couch he noticed immediately, curling his lip in exasperation.
"Amir, did you order the pizza?"
"No--not yet."
Rahman put down his stuff and handed him the phone, sparing me a quick
contemptuous glance.
"Order it."
"We haven't decided what to get--"
"Anything you like. Just get it ordered; I'm starving. Qasim, take your
shit upstairs. Salim!"
Qasim finished taking off his shoes and began, rather slowly, to round up
his school things. Amir stepped into the dining room and I heard him
talking as Salim came pounding down the steps.
"What is it?"
"Pick your shit up off this couch."
Salim shrugged and went to do it. I watched his ass too, out of the corner
of my eye. Wouldn't it be nice if Rahman landed a smack on it--or on
Qasim's--to hurry them up?
While his brothers freshened up upstairs, Amir and I waited for the
pizza. Soon, we were all sitting around the living room munching
contentedly off paper plates, Rahman's mouth too full for asshole
comments. In fact, all four luscious Khalili mouths were full, engaged in
rhythmic chewing and the periodic nibbling of crispy crust, the lapping-up
of runaway cheese and sauce. I was actually getting off a little on
watching them eat. Such beautiful mouths, impeccably designed for kissing,
cocksucking, and all other oral pleasures. Salim's eyes closed contentedly
as he ate. Rahman stared silently straight ahead, Qasim glowered--but rather
aimlessly. And Amir snuck looks at me, his black eyes sliding sidelong in a
somewhat predatory way, the whites taking on a bluish cast in the curtained
room. Salim made little happy noises as he ate, probably
unconsciously. Qasim on the far side of the room kept asking for the soda,
the dipping sauce, the napkins. Amir asked me how I liked
everything--playing the shy host, pretending I wouldn't love anything he
offered me.
When their father drove up, Rahman went outside to help him with his
bags. From where I sat, I glimpsed the man before he saw me.
Of course, I'd seen Mr. Khalili before. He was extremely good-looking (he'd
have to be to have such unmitigatedly gorgeous sons), with those huge
lush-lidded jet-black eyes, that sharp nose, those pillowy lips. Slim, too,
like Amir, though he had to be over forty. Right now he appeared a little
frazzled, but relieved to be home. A pair of sunglasses rested askew on his
head, and his thick grey- threaded black hair stuck up like he'd slept on
it. Amir had mentioned his dad had an important computer-related job, which
he, Amir, understood only vaguely. Regionally, he was considered among the
best in his field (whatever, exactly, that field was), and was very much in
demand.
He didn't look like the type to whack a kid. Though--let me assure you--I
had no difficulty at all in imagining Amir getting it from his handsome
dad.
I noticed right away that Mr. Khalili was very physically affectionate with
his boys. He wrapped Rahman up in a big hug after they got all the bags in,
clapping him firmly on the back. When Salim came into the hall and greeted
him happily (Salim was so naturally happy that if he weren't so cute I'd
probably want to kill him), he kissed him on the cheek, very near the
corner of his upturned mouth. He gave sullen Qasim a long tight hug and
kind of ruffled his hair. He was obviously proud of his handsome sons,
which he should be.
I felt a little tremor of taboo excitement when I saw him kiss Salim so
near his mouth, the obvious pleasure and with which he held Qasim.
He turned into the living room, calling Amir's name. When he caught sight
of us both on the couch, munching the pizza, he eyed me quizzically, as
though I were a strange piece of furniture he could not for the life of him
remember having purchased. He went over and patted Amir on the shoulder.
"Hi, Amir. Introduce me?"
He had an accent, but it was clear he was more than comfortable with
English. His voice was pleasant, cultured. Even sweet.
"Dad. You might remember Aaron Eisen."
I give Mr. Khalili great credit; he didn't even blink. I knew the school
had probably told him I was the other party in the fight his son had had,
and even if they hadn't, Rahman would've. Anyway, I was really Amir's only
consistent enemy these days. Rudy Stafford had long since called it quits
with the 9/11 comments (not because he'd changed his fundamental attitude
any, but because since junior high he'd exhausted all of them--and Stafford
wasn't a particularly inventive mortal to begin with), and the jock-itch
sorts had pretty much realized Amir Khalili wasn't as easily cowed as, say,
Qasim. Whereas I was always at his throat, even if I generally played it
"clean" and avoided the racial attacks. The way I'd always thought of it, I
didn't need them--I was just *right*, without stooping to that kind of
thing. I suppose it should have followed that I didn't need to stoop to
hitting him in the face either.
But that's neither here nor there.
"Hello, Aaron." Approaching the sofa and sticking out his hand. "Call me
Tariq, if you like." Seeing my surprise, he shrugged. "Or Mr. Khalili's
fine."
"Good to meet you, Mr. Khalili—uh--Tariq. Amir invited me to stay for
dinner. I hope it's no trouble."
"None at all."
We chatted amicably about school as Amir and I finished our second slices
and Mr. Khalili began one. Rahman had already disappeared, and Qasim and
Salim quickly wolfed their crusts down. Qasim retreated to his bedroom
down the hall, but Salim remained sprawled in the easy-chair, flipping
vacantly through a magazine.
Mr. Khalili glanced behind him at his youngest son, then at his
watch. "Five minutes to homework time, Salim. OK?"
Salim grimaced.
"We talked about this before," his father said, more sternly.
Salim made another face and turned back to his magazine. Mr. Khalili took a
second slice and started asking me about my parents, what they do for a
living and such. I told him my mom works as a chemist at a plant about
forty minutes away from town, and my dad teaches university art classes,
including photography. Amir's dad could remember meeting them. I wasn't
there, but I could picture the smiles they'd use, the big, fake
too-bad-our-kids-hate-each-other smiles. Inwardly, I cringed.
Believing, perhaps, that the coast was clear because his father was busy
making small-talk with the weird Jewish kid, Salim got up and went to turn
on the television.
"Salim!"
"What?"
"What'd I say?"
"Just a few minutes, OK--"
In a flash, Mr. Khalili got up, set his plate down, moved across the room,
turned his son around easily and landed four hard spanks on the center of
his khaki'd bottom, which was round and boyishly springy and wobbled with
each resounding open-palmed shot. Salim compounded this tantalizing effect
by flinching with equal surprise at all four slaps, tightening his
butt-cheeks and then relaxing them again as if to meet his father's firm
hand.
"I said *now*, Salim, and I meant it."
"OK, OK..." Salim rubbed his smacked seat irritably and took off upstairs.
"I'm sorry about that," his father said, turning to me. "Salim has been
getting behind on his homework lately. His teachers are concerned, and so
am I. I figure some pain in his bottom might motivate him."
My jaw must have been hanging open. I was *extremely* grateful for the thin
paper plate I held over my lap, because things were rapidly becoming
unsettled down there, after seeing the way Salim's shapely fifteen-year-old
ass reacted to those spanks. Beside me, Amir stared fixedly at the remains
of his dinner.
"Uh, it's OK." I gave Mr. Khalili a strained, embarrassed smile, and
stuffed a bit of crust into my mouth.
"I'm glad you two have become friends, by the way. You always seemed like a
smart young man."
"Aaron and I have been studying together these past few days," Amir said
smoothly, without a hint of irony. Nevertheless, hearing "our" euphemism
from his mouth gave me a little inner thrill. I pressed the all-too-fimsy
paper plate down in my lap.
"That's great." I couldn't tell, with Mr. Khalili, whether he was being
fake isn't-that-nice nice, the way my parents sometimes were, or if he was
genuinely glad his son and I had patched things up. He seemed honest
enough; he didn't smile too much or over-emphasize certain words--two pretty
decent indicators of adult polite deception.
We chewed in silence.
"I should be going now," I said, finally, judging my budding erection to
have sufficiently diminished. I held up my plate. "Where can I throw this
away?"
Amir took our garbage and disappeared into the kitchen with it. When he
came back, I stood up.
"Nice meeting you, Tariq. Thanks for dinner. Amir--see you tomorrow."
And that was that. Amir walked me to the door. I stepped out into the weak,
cloud-filtered sunlight. I wished I could kiss him; I felt cold, uncertain.
I dreaded tomorrow.
*
That night I indulged in my usual before-bed ritual, lathering my erection
with some of the self- warming lube I'd used in Amir's warm sweet chute. My
face flushed whenever I thought about how I'd put my cock in his ass and
then met his father in the same day--but the idea also aroused me. I closed
my eyes and began with slow strokes. I didn't have in mind any kind of
(semi)coherent narrative, the way I sometimes did--though the memory of
Salim's bouncing ass under his dad's hand was more than adequate to start
me off. I saw the bounce of the butt, Salim's surprised little jump, in
slow motion. I allowed that and other images to wash over me until I was
immersed in a sumptuous but unlikely fantasy.
In Amir's bathroom. Qasim Khalili down on his slender knees mouthing all
over my knob, my hands caught deep in his thick hair, while Amir and Salim,
completely naked, kissed each other passionately and rubbed their beautiful
hands all over one another's lithe dark bodies. Amir, smiling sexily at me,
moved behind his youngest brother, tongued his soft young neck, and then he
began to stroke Salim's randy teenage cock while the boy's eyes closed in
pleasure and his innocent mouth opened in a low moan. Rahman entered the
fantasy unbidden; I felt the sudden pressure of his nude body behind
me. His skin was very hot, his chest firm and strong against my bare
back. He trailed his fingers over my body as I mouth-fucked his brother; I
felt his erection against my ass-cheeks, and his soft tongue behind my ear,
and he whispered--
But I never got to that, because suddenly there was cum all over my hands,
and my breath was coming in long heaves, and everything was done. I cleaned
myself with a tissue from the box that was never far from my bed, tossed it
into the waste-basket that was also never far from my bed, and rolled over
into a deep and immediate sleep.
*
The next day came too soon. On the way to homeroom, I glimpsed Amir for the
first time that day. He was talking to a teacher by his locker, gesturing
energetically. He didn't see me. His head was turned, but I recognized the
smooth jawline and sharp nose, the gel-tamed curls, the curve of his cute
right ear. I'd know him anywhere. Watching him without his knowing it
brought a terrible tightness to my chest. My gaze slid covetously down his
body, past the tucked button-up shirt, to the creased dress pants draped
perfectly over the proud jut of his matchless behind.
I didn't see him again until lunch, during which he sat with his friends--an
even less popular group than mine, but not by much. I noticed Qasim and
Nick Stafford (Rudy's far-more-decent younger brother) were with them
today. I considered going over to say hi to Nick, but I wasn't sure if I'd
be able to control myself around Amir. My hands would shake like spring
leaves, I just knew it. Last week, I could have talked to anybody. It had
never mattered to me that I had a strange religion, a smugly easy 4.0, and
almost zero tact, that few people outside my small, geeky group liked
me. But today just glancing over at Amir's table a second time made my
heart jump and slam in my chest. He looked so beautiful, laughing, sipping
juice, doing normal things. God--I was disgusted with myself. My friend
Brent McCauley even said I looked sick, and he's about the least observant
person I know.
It being a Friday was good for me. Fridays, religion class for seniors was
held at the end of the day. Exactly five people got to go home early:
myself; Amir Khalili; and three kids who happened to be Protestants of one
flavor or another. One of them, Amanda Slater, had kind of a crush on me;
maybe she thought I was exotic or something. I'd naively given her a ride
home the first week of school, and she'd spent the whole time giggling at
everything I said. I tend not to notice girls as much as I gather I'm
supposed to, otherwise I would have discerned her intentions toward me
during the first five minutes. She was kind of ditzy, but a nice enough
girl otherwise. Pretty, charming, well-coiffed. I avoided her like
smallpox.
I had very few classes with Amir overall, and none on Fridays. I planned to
catch him at his locker when the halls were empty. After History, I cut
short an exchange with another friend to rush to my own locker and gather
what I needed for the weekend. Then I walked as quickly as possible to
Amir's section of hallway. I would've run, but I didn't want to attract the
attention of one of the several teachers who habitually lurked just inside
their classroom doors watching for stragglers, hall- runners, and other
criminals.
"Aaron. Hey."
Two simple, casual words, but his smile was brilliant, his skin a pure
lovely honey-bronze even under the awful fluorescent lights. He looked
puffy and worn around the eyes, as if he'd had trouble sleeping. A wave of
tenderness, devoid--or almost devoid--of sexuality, rose in me. I wanted to
fold him up in my arms, hold him close and kiss those soft tired dark
eyes. It had been a long day.
"I thought we were going to `move in separate circles'," he whispered,
still smiling.
I too spoke in a low voice: "Sorry. But I've been looking at you all
day. When I could."
"I know. You didn't see me looking at you too?"
"No. Sneaky bastard."
We walked out together. The parking lot was deserted, so, behind my car,
out of sight of anyone watching from the school, he squeezed my hand, hard.
*
I didn't expect to hear from him that weekend, and was apprehensive about
calling him. What if Rahman picked up? I did everything I could to distract
myself, including catching up on the demonic amount of work I'd allowed to
accumulate during our two-and-a-half delicious days locked in his bedroom.
On Saturday morning, my mother mentioned that she and my dad planned to go
to dinner and a concert with another couple who lived nearly two hours
away. They would either come home very late that night, or stay at their
friends' place until the following day. I wasn't terribly surprised; they
didn't get to spend a great deal of quality time together during the week
because of their jobs, and they often went out on weekends. Needless to
say, I didn't mind at all--especially this weekend.
I'd have to risk Rahman's wrath.
I was surprised when a young woman answered. I asked her to get Amir, my
heart beginning to speed up.
"Hey, Khalili. Who was that?"
"Oh--just Rahman's girlfriend, Britney." With the tone he gave it, her name
came out sounding like the slang for a venereal disease. His voice
dropped. "She's a bitch... Well, I guess you'd have to be to handle my
brother. Anyway, *I* don't like her."
"I have good news. My parents are going out tonight. If you want, you can
come over."
His voice brightened. "What time?"
"Five o'clock or so." I didn't say anything, but I wanted to ensure that my
parents would be long gone before Amir showed. I didn't want them trying to
be "tolerant" and "culturally sensitive" all over him. It'd be a mess